


Nobodies That Remind You of Somebodies

by gingerbread man (xphantomhive)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Daville White, F/F, F/M, Go me I guess, Good then you've chosen the right author, I hope you enjoy this, I keep reading post-scratch stuff and it makes me want to be a part of it, I've had this idea for like two days, Let me tag my OCs, M/M, Oneshot, Or for forever, Post-Scratch, Rina - Freeform, Sad with a Happy Ending, Second and Sebring, So now I am, You want the feels?, mainly johndave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:04:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphantomhive/pseuds/gingerbread%20man
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are nobodies, you realize.</p><p>But they always remind you of somebodies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobodies That Remind You of Somebodies

**Author's Note:**

> I read many post-scratch things and I wanted to be part of the "written for post-scratch" parade and now I am.

You wake up in a bed that isn’t your own with a person next to you, and panic sets in before you even have a moment to blink your eyes and attempt to register where you are or what might have happened last night. There’s a pounding in your head and a bitter taste on your tongue, one you’ve grown accustomed to. It’s from vodka, you drink it enough to know, and that means you drank it last night but you probably drank too much, too much, like you always do.

The person next to you is a woman. You note she’s mostly undressed, and you are, as well. You don’t want to be here when she wakes up, you realize suddenly, so you hop out of the bed and dress yourself as quietly as humanly possible. Glimpses of last night fill your head, of brown eyes that glinted beneath streetlights and almost looked red, stumbling out of the trashy club with two women on your arm.

There’s a point where she turns in her sleep, and you think she’s going to wake up, but she does not. You don’t bother putting your shoes on, opting to carry them because the summer heat hasn’t set in yet, it’s too early, and the cold asphalt will feel good beneath your feet. You glance at the girl before you leave, noticing she has bleach blonde hair and pale skin and freckles, and you see sunglasses folded up on the bedside table.

She reminds you of someone, you think, someone you might have loved once. But you can’t remember.

 

* * *

“John Crocker,” The man with the clipboard calls, and you let out a pathetic noise when you see his face. He cocks an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment, only leads you silently back to the try-out room for aspiring comedians like yourself. He’s short and his hair is black and he looks angry, so angry, and he reminds you of someone but you don’t know who, and you wish you did. “Knock ‘em dead. Heard you’re a real funny guy.”

You suppose that’s true, but you don’t find yourself all that amusing. You can get whole clubs laughing, but you’ve always found your jokes to be stupid if not a little bit pointless. But if they make people laugh, that’s fine. All you’ve ever wanted is to make people laugh, and you want it to become your specialty, your life. It’s your dream career and you’ll follow it, even if you stumble and fall.

You can tell as many jokes as you want, but you have to tell at least five. There are only three people watching you, and they’ve all dispersed into giggles by the end of your act, the one you’ve practiced so many times the jokes seem stale. One of the judges is cackling, and you note she has black hair and teal lips and she’s wearing a strange pair of red glasses, and you want to cry because she looks like someone you know.

Someone you might have, once. But that’s a stupid, stupid thought, and you push it to the back of your mind with all the others. Too often you see people and they remind you of someone, and you think it’s time you grew out of that. You’re eighteen now, you’re following your dreams, and that’s all that matters. Not something silly like noticing a person and thinking you’ve seen them before.

The judges tell you you’re free to perform at the club anytime you want.

* * *

You tell jokes everywhere. Diners, clubs, dives. Wherever they’re willing to accept you. But the one place you frequent is the one you’d had to try out for, the first one that had let you tell your jokes. They pay you a dollar for every laugh. Eventually, so many people began to attend, so many people were laughing at once, and they couldn’t use that system anymore. So they gave you twenty dollars a show, instead.

You kind of become a celebrity. People ask for your autograph, pictures with you. They ask you what it’s like to be famous and you tell them you aren’t sure, because you don’t really think you’re all that famous. They tell you that’s nonsense; you’re just being humble. Soon you can’t go anywhere without seeing the name John Crocker, and that’s when you begin to think you may actually be a celebrity, just a little bit.

Sometimes you get invited to parties, but you never attend them. You prefer to stay at home, and something about the DJs and their music makes your chest ache. It’s wonderful, they’re talented, but something about the music makes you yearn, but you can never figure out what exactly you’re yearning for.

* * *

It takes until you’re twenty-five to get married and settle down, because for a few years you’re content with a few flings here and there. You meet the woman you know you want to marry at one of your late shows, with a small crowd that’s so drunk they can barely comprehend the jokes you’re telling. They still laugh drunkenly, even if they don’t understand the joke you’ve told or if they just aren’t listening.

She is, though. Her laughs are genuine, not bubbly like the drunk girls crowding around the stage. You buy her a drink and talk to her for a while. She tells you she’s majoring in photography but has a side career as a DJ, and you unsubtly take in her appearance while you listen to her rave about DJing. Her blonde hair is long, bleach blonde, and wavy, and her brown eyes glow beneath the lights and almost look red at a certain angle. There are freckles on her cheeks and hands, and she is oh-so pale.

“What’s your name?” You ask when you realize you’re thoroughly interested in her, and she giggles and covers her mouth daintily. Her words are quiet but you somehow hear her over the pumping music of the nightclub, and she tells you that she usually gets called “Davi,” but her real name is Daville White.

She reminds you of someone, you think, someone you might have loved once. But you can’t remember.

* * *

Daville tells you she was raised a Christian, so she hasn’t lost her virginity yet. For the sake of making her happy, you tell her you haven’t lost yours, either. She tells you she’d like to wait until marriage to lose hers, and you tell her that’s fine, you don’t mind waiting for her. She kisses your cheek and tells you you’re the sweetest man she’s ever met, and you crack a smile and tell her she’s the best girlfriend you’ve ever had.

The two of you are married in a month, and on your honeymoon she loses her virginity to you. You wish you could say truthfully you’d lost yours to her, but you hadn’t; as long as she believes you had and it makes her happy, you guess it’s okay. You slip up once and call out something that isn’t her name, but it’s close enough and you don’t think she notices.

When the two of you are cuddling later, she calls you out on it. You apologize profusely and tell her it was an accident, and she buys it. She plants a kiss on your cheek and snuggles closer, and the two of you fall asleep like that. You think you love her, but you think there was someone else you loved more than life itself, once.

* * *

You only have one child together. Daville tells you that’s enough, that she doesn’t want any more than one. That saddens you the slightest. When you were younger, you’d dreamt of having a big family, one you could provide for. But if she only wants one, you aren’t going to argue. And the one child you have is gorgeous, and you love her more than you love anything in the world, other than your wife.

You name her Jade. When she’s young, her hair is dark brown and her eyes are bright green, and when she grows to the age of six her hair has gone entirely black and her eyes seem to glow even brighter than before. She reminds you of someone, too, someone you think you might have been friends with and you would have done anything to protect.

But you can’t remember.

* * *

Jade is interested in music when she’s young, but not the kind you’d been interested in. She likes loud rock and roll, the kind of stuff that shakes the walls and gives you a headache. Daville scolds her for turning it so loud, but when she leaves for work you tell Jade to crank it as loud as she wants. She hugs you and tells you you’re the best dad ever, and you smile and kiss her temple. You tell her she’s the best daughter ever.

One day, when she’s twelve, she brings over a girl. A girl with blonde hair like your wife’s, cut in a bob, and glowing blue eyes that look almost violet. When she leaves, you ask Jade why she’d want to be friends with that girl. She reads dark books and practices spells from a spellbook that’d been passed through her family, and she tells you that she’s going to be a witch when she gets older.

Your daughter gives you a look of confusion when you ask, but shrugs.

“I don’t know, she reminded me of someone.”

And you realize she reminds you of someone, too.

* * *

When you’re too old to tell jokes, Jade takes over. She doesn’t tell jokes, she isn’t interested in that; instead, she sings with a little group she’d gotten together. She’s in her twenties now, and she looks nothing like her mother. Her band is good, you decide the first time you hear them play. One night they sing a song that’s mostly screaming, but you pick out a few words here and there.

_I hope, I hope you smile_

_When you look down on me._

_I hope you smile._

_This can’t, we won’t know._

_I hope that I make you proud._

_This is not what it is, only baby scars._

_I need your love like a boy needs his mother’s side._

You start crying and you aren’t sure why, and when your wife raises a slim eyebrow you wave her off. She looks away, and you take the chance to slip out when she does. Jade finds you backstage, covering your ears with both hands, and then she raises an eyebrow as your wife had earlier; you see the resemblance.

“What’s wrong, dad? Did you not like it? Oh, I’m sorry! You don’t like that kind of music, do you? Gah, I should’ve done something different--”

You wave her off. “No, it’s nothing. I got sad, is all. The yelling did kind of give me a headache, though.”

Jade’s worried look fades. She gives you a small smile, showing off her buckteeth, the ones she’d gotten from you. Then she throws herself at you and nearly knocks the air out of you, and she’s crushing you in one of her famous bear hugs. “Love you, dad.” She mumbles into your chest, and you smile, petting her hair affectionately.

“Love you too, kid.”

* * *

You’re in your sixties when Jade tells you she’s going to move you and Daville to a retirement home. Daville, being herself, throws a hissy fit -- you shrug and comment about how you’re getting pretty old. That makes Jade’s frown curl into a smile, which you’re thankful for; you could tell she’d begun regretting the decision.

The retirement home isn’t bad. Actually, it’s “assisted living” so you don’t get help unless you’re in dire need. Daville eventually adjusts to it, and you’re glad she stops complaining about what an awful daughter Jade is for putting you two here. In fact, she even makes a friend out of one of the nurse’s. A woman, probably in her thirties, with short black hair and blistering green eyes.

She’s another nobody who reminds you of somebody, and there’s a harsh pulling in your chest whenever she stops by to strike up a conversation with Daville. Her name is Naomi, you learn. She’s obsessed with cats, and you note she usually wears a pair of cat ears to work. Daville makes her a scarf with pawprints on it, and Naomi almost cries when she gets it.

She tells Daville that her home life is hard, that she doesn’t have much money. You slip a few dollars into everything your wife knits for her, and eventually she asks you why you’re helping her. You smile kindly. “You’re a nobody who reminds me of somebody,” and she doesn’t question you any further.

* * *

On your ninetieth birthday, it snows. You find it odd, snow in April; Jade says it means something is going to happen. You ask her how she knows that, and she tells you her wife Rina says that to her whenever it snows at a time when it shouldn’t. You laugh it off, tell her it’s just a myth, but Jade seems to believe Rina.

All day she stays with you, waiting for something to happen. You know she wants to shout, “Told you so!” -- just like her deceased mother would have. Even in her seventies, Jade is as hyperactive as ever. Nothing does happen, but she decides she won’t go home and will instead stay with you overnight. You ask why, and she responds, “a gut feeling.”

Rina stops by at one in the morning, looking absolutely trashed. Her pink bathrobe is untied, there are bags under her eyes, and her blonde hair is thrown carelessly into a bun. When she sees Jade, she throws herself into your daughter’s arms and almost starts crying. You hear her whispering, “I thought you died, I thought you died,” and Jade rubs her back and whispers sweet nothings in her ear.

You smile fondly. Rina stays, too, and falls asleep in Jade’s arms.

At five o’clock, your chest tightens. You lose all of the air in your lungs and try to bring it back, but you only start wheezing. When it gets loud enough, Jade wakes, Rina along with her. You try to speak, but the words won’t come out. Jade trips over her feet running out to get a nurse, and by the time she’s come back, your breaths are labored.

You are dying.

Jade holds your hand the entire time, filling your usually silent room with her cries. Rina rubs her back, tells her it’s all going to be okay, but you can tell by the look in her blue eyes she knows it won’t. And when the clock chimes at seven, you give your daughter what you know will be your final smile, and force out an, “I love you.”

She sobs and tells you that you won’t die, but you tell her you will. And then she sobs harder, and through hiccups and cries forces herself to say “love you, dad” and you give her hand a final squeeze before you stop breathing.

And then, there is peace.

* * *

You wake up in a place you know you’ve been before. There is grass beneath you, making the backs of your arms and legs itch. You’re all gangly limbs and pale skin, and you’re wearing a Ghostbusters shirt and some cargo shorts. You vaguely remember dying, with your daughter Jade next to you, gripping your hand. You remember that your name is -- or rather that it had been -- John Crocker.

You sit up abruptly, realizing someone is next to you only when they jump. “Christ, Egbert, warn a man before you’re going to sit up for no damn reason.”

Their voice makes you jump. It is familiar, and it makes your heart lurch. You give them a sidelong glance, catch glimpses of their blonde hair, pale skin, and the freckles on their cheeks. They are wearing sunglasses. You know this person, but you can’t seem to remember their name; it’s on the tip of your tongue.

“You just gonna ogle me all day, or you got somethin’ brewing in that mind of yours? Better not be a prank, Egbert.”

There is no rhyme or reason as to why you suddenly leap forward and press your lips to theirs, clumsy and uncoordinated. They do not push you off, but they pull you much, much closer. When you break apart, you note that you’ve began to cry. Tears coat your cheeks, glistening beneath the afternoon sunlight. You don’t let the person get too far before you pull them back to you, holding them tightly, sobbing into their shoulder.

“Holy hell, all you did was take a nap,” they, _he_ , says. But you know he doesn’t know about you being John Crocker, he knows you as you are now, as -- what had he called you, Egbert? He knows you not as John Crocker but as John Egbert, and to him all you’d done was take a long nap and then kissed him and cried into his shoulder for no reason whatsoever.

He reminds you of someone, you think, someone you might have loved once. But now, you _can_ remember. Not only does he remind you of that someone,

he _is_ that someone. And you love him very, very much.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay firstly, raise your hand if you've ever felt personally victimized by my fanfictions.  
> (I'm serious. You need to tell me if you have, I'm curious.)
> 
> The song John cries at is Second and Sebring.
> 
> I hope this doesn't suck. Really, I do. Because I adore the idea and I hope I wrote it okay.


End file.
